


Family Ties

by VictorianRomance (88Chariots)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Courtship, Deception, England (Country), F/M, Intrigue, Love, Love Triangles, Regency, Regency Romance, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/88Chariots/pseuds/VictorianRomance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra Walpole is sent to live with a man she has always considered her uncle. The first night of her stay she is shocked to discover his intentions of marrying her. Cassandra is thrust into a world not her own, filled with deception, conceit, and betrayal, and despite her desperate attempts of remain true to the one she considers her true love, she finds that not everyone is as they seem on the surface. </p><p>"The sudden realization did not come from herself. She was far to sheltered and naive to have discovered his intentions, for to her they were so outlandish, criminal even, that she could not bring herself to think it up on her in if she imagined the worst. It was the small twinkle of his eye, the slight twitch of his mouth, and the way his eyes lowered, against his own will, to her creamy throat and the swell of her breasts. She felt her stomach tighten and her skin flush red, and as he looked her over he could see the red splotches erupt over her skin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Ties

I   
When Cassandra Walpole left her family in Norfolk to live with her uncle in Dorsetshire she had no idea that he had designs on making her his wife. For at only eighteen she thought Thomas Hemingford as much her uncle as his late wife and her aunt had been. But while there was no blood relation between them, and the unhappy marriage between Thomas Hemingford and her aunt Frances had been childless, leaving no further connection between the Hemingford family and the Walpole family, the union would still be frowned upon by anyone of high standing as incestuous. 

So Edward and Susan Walpole sent their daughter to Mr. Hemingford with the greatest expectation that their daughter would remain unmolested and cared for in his presence. They were thrilled at the belief that he would provide her dowry for whatever young man was to fall for her undeniable beauty and charm and never once mistook Mr. Hemingford’s motives. What might have raised a red flag, that he wrote to them requesting they send Cassandra and not either of her brother’s Edward or James, who they had hoped would become his heir, did nothing but provide conversation at the dinner table about what a ‘funny man’ he was. 

Cassandra, who had last seen her uncle at the age of fourteen previous to the funeral, had nothing but fond memories of him. He had been thirty eight at their last meeting, very much a grown man, but Cassandra had pleased him with her charm, knowledge of French and Latin, her ability to sing, play the piano and dance. Of course no attraction had been present during this last meeting, for she was still very much a little girl, but Mr. Hemingford had seen her potential to be an exemplarity young lady and an excellent wife.   
When his wife died and the family gathered for the funeral and morning, Cassandra had turned into a young lady, was flowering into a beautiful woman, and was as pleasing to Mr. Hemingford then as she had been at fourteen, but now with an added attraction. For a man who had endless amounts of money, more money that one could ever dream of spending in three lifetimes, he could have any woman he wanted, but as Cassandra stepped toward him and placed a kiss to his cheek to pay her respects, he had made his decision. 

Mr. Hemingford, while charming and likable, was not the easiest man to love, nor did he give away his own affections easily. His two nephews he looked on with indifference, for they were not his sons, and Cassandra had never been family to him. To Mr. Hemingford, there was nothing wrong with the match, for he felt no more a relation to her than he had Frances’ sister. Never had he wished to be attached to the Walpole family. He married Frances purely for her dowry, and as the marriage continued and no children resulted from their union, they grew further and further apart. On the day of her death, Mr. Hemingford had been shocked to learn she had even been ill. 

And so it is clear that as far as Mr. Hemingford was concerned, his intention to marry Cassandra was anything but indecent, and in fact an act of charity, for he would require no dowry from her late wife’s family, and for a family with no more money, this should have been seen as a god’s send. It was unlikely either Edward or James would marry well, and by reattaching themselves to the Hemingford fortune, they would keep themselves afloat. Needless to say, none of the Walpoles realized there was a need to “reattach” themselves, for they quite strongly believed themselves still attached. 

The day after the Walpoles returned to Norfolk they received a letter from Mr. Hemingford expressing his desire to have Cassandra come spend the summer at his estate:

“It has grown so overpoweringly lonely, that some companionship might help me emerge from the looming depression I have found myself in since the passing of my beloved wife…” 

Frances, much grieved by her sister’s passing, immediately gave her assent, but it took longer to convince her husband Robert. 

“One of the boys must go,” Robert Walpole stated as he read the letter. “James, the younger, he may be made Hemingford’s heir.” 

“Hemingford is not yet forty three; he has plenty of times to beget sons. He doesn’t need one of ours,” she reasoned and Robert eventually relented. 

The day that Cassandra arrived at Torridon Park she was not met by Mr. Hemingford, who she came to understand was in the home. She found that immensely odd, but forgave him, as she believed him to still be mourning. However, when she saw him that night at dinner his mood was far to pleased for any person who had just lost a loved one. He met her outside of the dining hall at the time specified to her by a servant, and gave her a kind bow of welcome. 

“I was so pleased you decided to be my guest,” he told her, a small smile resting on his lips. She admired his handsome looks for as she gazed at him, spoke her own humble welcome and thanked him for inviting her while he escorted her into the dining room. She sat directly to his right, for no one else was at the Park to dine with them that night. She was extremely nervous when she first sat down but he quickly put her at ease with his kind voice and gentle disposition put her at ease. 

“I hope your journey was not too difficult,” he told her and watched as she delicately sipped at her crystal wine class and placed it down without a sound.

“Oh it was quite lovely,” she told him. “It rained only a little, and I was able to do quite a bit of reading.” 

“Reading? Nothing too adventurous I hope,” he teased and she felt her skin flush an uncomfortable red as he said it. She quickly scolded herself for her terrible thoughts, reminded herself that this man was her uncle and would certainly not make a reference to those wicked yellow books that had begun to circulate recently, and collected herself. 

“No, just a silly little novel,” she told him and he nodded. 

“If you enjoy novel’s you may find my personal library to your liking,” he told her. “The official library is filled with more conventional books I am sure you will enjoy as well, but my own personal novel collection is quite impressive.” 

“I would love to look at it!” she said in excitement, ignoring his unabashed boast. 

“Perhaps tonight?” 

“Oh yes! Is it in your study?” she asked. 

“My rooms,” he replied flatly and she once again felt her face flush slightly. She certainly could not go in there, despite his being her uncle, and especially not so late into the evening. If the servants were to see, they may misunderstand. 

“Oh, I will see some other time then. I do not wish to intrude into your personal space,” she told him. 

“You would do no such thing,” he told her simply. “However, if you would feel more comfortable we shall retire to the drawing room where you shall play the piano for me. I am told you are quite a gifted musician.” 

“I have improved much since you heard me play last,” she told him proudly. “Mr. Stoddard comes over every day to hear me play. He is quite cross with me for leaving for the summer.” 

“Mr. Stoddard?” Mr. Hemingford asked, a tightness to his smile. 

“Yes, Charles Stoddard, he is Edward and James’ good friend from Oxford. He lives but a few miles away from our home and spends much time with us,” she told him.  
“Is he a man of wealth?” he asked curiously and she colored slightly. 

“My father says he is worth at least three thousand pounds a year,” she told him and was taken aback by her uncle’s snort of indignation. 

“Three thousand pounds? Why I take in more than that simply from the Park,” he said callously. “My income exceeds ten thousand a year.”   
“Yes, well, Three thousand pounds is quite a lot to me,” she replied. 

“Is he from the Stoddard family in London?” 

“One and the same,” she told him and he nodded slowly. 

“I know the father, a good man, but hardly one, one would want to get mixed up with,” Hemingford told her. He leaned in closely to whisper to her, despite no one else being in the room, and she leaned in to listen eagerly. “Spends his time drinking and betting on horses.” 

“Not so!” she cried as she pulled back. “Mr. Robert Stoddard? I cannot believe such a thing.”

“I do not lie,” he told her sitting up straight. 

“Oh, Uncle, I meant no offense –”

“I am not your uncle,” he said, holding up a hand and pointing at her with a force that sent her back in her chair. 

“But I –”

“We have met but three times in our lives, Miss Walpole, and two of those times when you were a very little girl. I think it foolish to assign such descriptors onto our relationship as it is clear no emotional bond was ever formed between us. The moment your aunt and my wife died our connection to each other was severed,” he informed her as if he were scolded a small child. 

“If that is so, Mr. Hemingford, is my being here not inappropriate?” she asked him. “And I must admit it hurts me immensely to hear you say you formed no emotional bond to me, for I most certainly formed one to you.” 

“I apologize if I have hurt you. I am fond of you it is true, but to say I have the feelings of an uncle for a niece for you would be dishonest and naïve,” he told her.   
“Then if you feel no sense of kinship for me why did you send for me?” she asked. 

The sudden realization did not come from herself. She was far to sheltered and naïve to have come up with his intentions, for to her they were so outlandish, criminal even, that she could not bring herself to think it up on her in if she imagined the worst. It was the small twinkle of his eye, the slight twitch of his mouth, and the way his eyes lowered, against his own will, to her creamy throat and the swell of her breasts. She felt her stomach tighten and her skin flush red, and as he looked her over he could see the red splotches erupt over her skin. 

His dark eyes remained on her as he watched her slowly push herself up from her chair. Her arms trembled slightly, and if he did not think the act would be unwelcome by its recipient, he would have reached out to steady her. Instead he merely watched, the small smile on his lips never once leaving his face. She truly was an intoxicating young woman. After the funeral of his wife, and he had fixed his sights on young Cassandra, he had dismissed his long time mistress, much to her distress. With a woman as pleasing, soothing, and intoxicatingly beautiful as Miss Walpole, no man on earth could ever have a need for another woman. Not when she would most certainly fill his days and nights with the purest and basest of pleasures. 

“I am very sorry, Mr. Hemingway, but I have always thought you and always will think you my uncle. It would be a most egregious crime if I were to even consider your suit,” she told him with a tremor in her voice. 

“You say that now,” he said with what Cassandra would have thought a warm smile only moments earlier. “But by the end of the summer you will hardly believe you ever thought me a relation to you.” 

“I will not marry you,” she said plainly and his eyebrows rose slightly. 

“Oh?” 

“And if you wish me to return home now I completely understand, in fact I would prefer if –”

“Send you home? And be denied your company? No, I would prefer you stay,” he told her with gentleness in his voice, but a firmness that stated she would be unable to change his mind. 

“I am feeling un-well Sir, I am sure you will not be offended if I go to bed early?” 

“Of course not,” he told her but she had already turned to leave the room. 

“Miss Walpole,” he said as she got to the doorway and she turned back to look at him. 

“I will inform you now, that before any of your letter’s reach the post, I will be looking them over,” he told her and she felt her face turn red with indignation and humiliation. 

“Of course, sir,” she said and gave him a small curtsey. Mr. Hemingford watched after her with a small smile to his lips. Slowly, he reached out, and, after a small chuckle, delicately sipped at his wine.


End file.
